


I Come Alive

by jujubiest



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Following
Genre: Anal Sex, As do Will and Hannibal, Biting, Crossover, Joe Carroll Lives, Light-Hearted Power Plays, M/M, Messed Up Soulmates, Multi, Murder Husbands, Pain Kink, Post-Series, Serial Killers Hunting Serial Killers, Snarking While Sexing, The Hanniwing, Twisted Romance, how many ways can I say these relationships are not healthy or advisable?, serial killers in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are out of the FBI's reach and presumed dead. But it appears they aren't the only serial killing duo to escape justice and successfully fake their deaths...believe it or not. Now they're being hunted by perhaps the only two people on earth who might have a chance of actually catching them: Ryan Hardy and Joe Carroll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eriakit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eriakit/gifts).



> I blame Eriakit for this. I'd also like to thank her immensely for volunteering to beta-read the smutty chapters. Credit (and love and joy and cupcakes) go to IrreverentCatalyst for beta-reading all the un-smutty chapters!

Hannibal gazed steadily across the bright, sunny thoroughfare at the man pretending not to watch him as he read his morning paper. He had noticed the man looking at him earlier, seen the man recognize him. Now Hannibal waited to see what he would do.

He also recognized his observer, of course. How could he not? Even if he hadn’t been in the habit of keeping an eye and an ear turned toward the exploits of his fellows, the stories of this man were so sensational and ever-present that he would have to have been living under a rock—or buried much deeper than charming Alana had managed—to avoid knowledge of him.

Joe Carroll.

Hannibal suppressed an undignified snort with some difficulty, an unfortunate habit he was picking up from dear Will. But _Joe Carroll_ …he almost couldn’t help it. The man was infamous, dubiously lauded as one of the most prolific and dangerous serial killers of the last three decades. Textbooks and true crime novels put the gruesome accounts of his exploits on bookshelves beside Hannibal himself.

To the latter’s mind, the man hardly deserved such a place.

Carroll’s crimes had always been so…tawdry, overwrought and melodramatic. The predictably consistent victimology, the endless and painfully obvious Poe allusions. Hannibal had never seen any beauty in that particular poet’s self-indulgent melancholy, nor did he see anything particularly inspired in Carroll’s chosen method of displaying his obsession. It was pathetic, really…he was a killer in the same vein as he was an author: having all the tools to create a work of art, yet lacking any talent at using them.

Unfortunately, the general public failed to understand his utter lack of subtlety and skill in killing as readily as they had when it came to his writing.

Still, Hannibal had to concede one point upon which he found himself suitably impressed: that Joe Carroll was sitting across the way in broad daylight, sipping an espresso and pretending to read the paper, and Hannibal was…surprised by it.

Mostly because Joe Carroll was supposed to be dead.

Intriguing as this mystery was, however, it would have to wait, perhaps indefinitely. Carroll folded his paper, set it aside, and stood. He dug some currency inelegantly from his pockets to pay for his coffee, then began walking up the street, away from Hannibal.

Hannibal waited exactly five seconds, then paid his own bill, slipped on his coat, and followed.

It was a beautiful day, the streets dappled with sunlight that filtered between buildings and through the odd scattered tree or patterned latticework. The city appeared golden, open and guileless…but the shadows still crept in between high-walled buildings spaced too close together, little pockets of darkness waiting to leap forth and swallow the unwary.

Hannibal followed Carroll at a cautious distance, close enough to keep his back in sight but not so close as to be suspicious if Carroll happened to turn. He didn’t, however. He meandered along, seemingly oblivious, the sunlight picking the gray out of his hair in little glints of silver.

Several blocks on he paused a moment, then turned abruptly to the side and stepped into one of those shady little alleyways. Hannibal stopped before it and peered into the relative dark before continuing, the details hard to discern as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting.

Carroll was stopped several yards into the alley, leaning casually against the wall. He seemed to be waiting.

It would be rude to make him wait any longer, Hannibal thought wryly. He stepped into the narrow space, stopping a few feet away from the man.

“Dr. Carroll,” he said genially. “I confess myself surprised to see you here. I see reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.”

The corner of Carroll’s mouth that Hannibal could see lifted in a smile.  He pushed off the wall and turned, hands resting lightly on his own hips, poised and casual all at once in a way that Hannibal found grossly affected.

“Dr. Lecter,” he acknowledged him with a slight nod. “I wish I could say I’m as surprised to see you as you are to see me.”

A nearly soundless footstep behind him set the warning bells in Hannibal’s mind jangling. He turned, ducking and twisting to the side, and felt the air move as a hard, heavy object swung through the air, right where his head had been a moment before. He felt the second blow already coming before the air had settled, and he darted out of the way just in time to miss it, mostly. He felt the bruising gouge of it as the jagged metal end of whatever it was raked his back and snagged in his jacket.

Hannibal twisted, grabbing for his assailant. His fist closed around cloth and he pulled, using the momentum as leverage to push his mystery attacker in front of him, and into Carroll.

Hannibal straightened and backed slowly toward the street, finally getting a good look at his opponent as he disentangled himself from Carroll. He was a rail-thin, gaunt-faced shadow of a man with eyes that glinted blue death at him in the dim light filtering into the alley from the street.

They made no move toward him as he stepped back into the street. Still, he didn’t take his eyes off either of the two men’s silhouettes until he was once again bathed in the sunlight of mid-morning. He backed down the street and into the brunch crowd.

They still didn’t attempt to follow, and after a careful half-hour of loitering and another twenty minutes of unnecessary detours, Hannibal finally arrived back at the small home he shared with Will.

He let himself in and locked the door securely behind him, allowing for a moment of self-collection as he ruminated on what had transpired—and almost transpired—that morning. It had given him much to consider.

Because not only was Joe Carroll apparently alive and well against all reports to the contrary. He was on the hunt, and his tastes had apparently taken quite a turn.

Joe Carroll had come looking for _him_. And he hadn’t come alone.

 


	2. Intrigued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has his own encounter. Now he and Hannibal have to decide what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My angsting over how to write this story can be found at my writing angst sideblog: http://slenderliza.tumblr.com.

Will sat still and silent in his little rented boat, eyes closed against the light baking his already sun-browned face and teasing golden tones out of his messy hair. He was awash in the serenity of that perfect moment, floating aimlessly, his line cast over the side but little chance of anything biting. That was fine. He wasn’t here for the catching.

His phone beeped softly, bringing him back to the surface without shattering the moment entirely. It waited there, just below his consciousness, a welcome light he could sink back into at any time.

He had come a long way since that tumble from a cliff top, a long way from constant waking nightmares and visions of death. Nowadays, everything in Will’s mind had a place, and death kept himself neatly tucked away just like the rest of them, waiting patiently until Will had need of him.

Will looked at his phone. Hannibal. He felt the neutral happiness resting on his face break into a genuine smile. He tapped the answer button and brought the phone to his ear.

“Will.” The tone of Hannibal’s voice had Will’s smile dropping away in an instant.

“Hannibal…what is it?” He was already up, reeling in his empty line and packing away his tackle box. There was a note of urgency in the way Hannibal said his name, and underneath that, the slightest hint of pain.

“Come home, Will.” Hannibal said, instead of elaborating on that single revealing syllable. “I will explain, but come home first.”

“On my way,” Will assured him, then hung up and pointed the nose of his boat toward the shore.

Someone was waiting there for him. Someone tall, and gaunt, and—Will thought—vaguely familiar.

Will’s thoughts went immediately to the serrated blade tucked into his fishing vest. He carried a full game processing set on him at all times—you never knew when you might have to field dress something, after all—but most of those tools had been impractical for today’s intended purposes, and so they were all packed away neatly in the bottom of his tackle box, where he couldn’t get to them easily.

At least not without showing his hand to the waiting man on the shore.

Will sighed, and reached inward, and felt the oily black spectre of death come flooding in around the edges of his vision. And it had been such a beautiful day.

“Will Graham.” The man called out as Will docked his boat. It wasn’t a question, so Will didn’t answer it as his unknown visitor advanced, shiny black shoes echoing hollowly against the worn wooden boards. He didn’t even look up.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” the man said, and he sounded amused. “Threw yourself off a cliff with your lover in tow. At least that was the story. I guess that’s all it was, huh.”

Will looked up sharply, squinting against the halo of sunlight flooding in from behind the man’s head. His features were mostly obscured, but Will thought he caught the hint of an amused smile.

He finished tying the boat off, wiped his hands on his jeans, and climbed out gracelessly, casually, as if the man standing there waiting for him didn’t present a clear and obvious threat. Will could feel the intent radiating off him in waves. This man was a killer, as sure as Will lived and breathed. And there was something else, an odd hint of flavor added to the eagerness, the bloodlust. It was something Will recognized, knew intimately.

Righteousness.

He stood before the stranger and smiled, slow and feral.

“Sorry to disappoint your romantic notions,” he said, in the over-enunciated way that never quite managed to hide his native drawl. “But I’m afraid Hannibal and I are indeed alive and well.”

“Alive, anyway,” the man shot back, no malice in it, just more of that calm amusement. “I suspect his back’s starting to smart by now.”

Will very carefully did not react. He’d just spoken to Hannibal. He was at home, and fine, and waiting for Will. There was no need for the boiling red sea of rage pouring in behind his eyes, filling his mouth with an anticipatory memory of the coppery taste of blood, making his scalp prickle and sting, as though sharp protrusions of malformed bone were pushing their way out of the top of his skull.

The man watched Will reign himself in, keep himself human by sheer force of will. Worse, he understood what he saw. Will grit his teeth in frustration, feeling naked.

“What exactly is it that you want?”

The man smiled, a genuine, boyish grin that made no sense on that pale, haggard face and had no place in the tension that stretched itself to the limit in the air between them.

“I wanted to see for myself,” he said cryptically. And then he turned, and he made his way back up the dock without another word.

“You’ll be hearing from me again soon, Will Graham,” he called back over his shoulder. “Be ready.”

And then he was gone, seeming to disappear into the scant line of trees. Will stood for a long moment on the docks before he shook himself and began the long trek home, tackle box in tow.

He usually enjoyed walking, stretching his legs at the end of a long day of fishing. He found it a relaxing way to ease back into the world, floating down from that golden, silent place he inhabited on the water, slowly filtering in the sights and sounds of civilization, other people, reality.

But today it was different. Today, he felt sick and worried like he hadn’t since before the Red Dragon, before the fall. Every shadow seemed to hold a pair of steely eyes, and every corner he turned was another opportunity for ambush, for death to leap from its designated place and invade all the rooms of Will’s mind with its horror once more.

He couldn’t have said what it was about the man at the docks that unsettled him so thoroughly. By all rights, it made no sense. Perhaps it was the way he had that air about him, not just of home but quite specifically of _FBI,_ something about the way he stood and the shoes that were both for running and for show.

Whatever it was, it had truly turned Will inside out with fear, which only served to make him furious as well. By the time he reached his front door, he was sweating and shaking, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether rage or terror fueled it more.

He let himself in and locked the door behind him, collapsing unceremoniously on the welcome mat. His head was a tangle of a thousand ugly images and one single question, reverberating over and over. _How did he know?_

Hannibal was on him in seconds, lifting him gingerly from the floor and guiding him toward the bathroom, helping him under the cool, refreshing spray of the shower. He sighed, a sound of profound relief, and pulled Hannibal in behind him, clothes and all. Hannibal went willingly, something he would normally refuse to do, and that’s when Will knew how worried he had truly been.

Hannibal wrapped him up with both arms. He pressed Will’s naked back firmly to his still-clothed chest, sodden fabric clinging to both their skins, water beating down on them and slowly washing away the stink of their combined fear. Will hadn’t known Hannibal still had it in him to be afraid.

“I’m alright, Hannibal,” he murmured finally, just for the reassurance of it more than because it was anywhere close to the truth. He’d stopped shaking, and he could feel all the tension draining out of him, every muscle knotted with the tension releasing and rendering him utterly exhausted in a matter of minutes.

Hannibal turned the water off and stripped out of his wet clothes, leaving them crumpled in the bathtub—another sign of the apocalypse nigh—as he went to fetch them both towels. They toweled themselves off and went straight to the bedroom, curled under their blankets and lay there, awake and silent, for what felt like hours.

“Are we leaving?” Will was the first to speak, and why he suddenly felt the need to ask instead of tell, convince, he didn’t know. They _should_ be leaving, should have left already. That’s what you did when you were a presumed-dead fugitive from justice and someone recognized you. Called you by name. Found you in the place you went to be alone, though you told no one where you were going. Looked at you once and knew everything, including the one thing no one else—not even Jack Crawford—had known for sure about Will and Hannibal.

But Hannibal didn’t answer Will’s question, or his silent fears. He just wrapped an arm tightly across Will’s chest and buried his face in the still-damp curls at the back of his neck, breathing in deeply.

“We should leave,” Will said, but he already knew where this was going. If they were going to run, they would have done it already. Hannibal didn’t want to run.

And Will…Will didn’t either.

He was too intrigued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do my best to be consistent about updating this. The plan is to stay one chapter ahead of myself, so chapter three is already finished and just needs to be beta'd. However I won't be posting it until the first draft of chapter four is done...which might not be until next week, as I'm going out of town this weekend and won't be taking my computer.


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